Airel - Aaron Patterson [120]
Kreios’ mind was invaded with the thought of death and walking through the door. Even now it called to him.
He paused for an instant as the battle continued to rage around him. Weapons clashed; oaths and curses were flying.
He inverted his Sword and rested the tip of the blade on the ground, kneeling, bowing his head, resting it on the pommel at the opposite end in prayer. He closed his eyes as warmth and power from the Sword radiated throughout his body. He ran down the corridors of his mind to the Door.
He could see it with his eyes closed. It was standing there, solitary, precisely how he felt: alone, exposed. Time was relentlessly flowing past him as he paused between realities, and he knew that the longer he tarried, the more dangerous the situation in battle became for all of them. He ran to the door and opened it. Beyond was a dark hole, nothing visible on the other side.
He stepped through, knowing that he had been driven to the ends of his choices, that this was the last one remaining to him. It felt like he was falling, but the darkness was so thick it was impossible to tell. He reached out into the dark void in his mind. Suddenly it was there, not in fields of grass, but in the dark this time, and invisible: The Sword of Light. His eyes flew open, and he snapped back to his body, knowing what must be done.
Standing, he took the Sword in his hands. With a great battle cry, he launched himself upward, the Sword held above him, pointing menacingly at the shroud concocted by the Seer. He rocketed straight up into the heavens on a trail of pure white fire, and lodged the Sword deeply into the shroud itself, sinking it all the way to the hilt. It had pierced the Seer’s wicked spell.
Cracks appeared in the firmament, and light was breaking through, ripping the shroud of the Seer’s black magic asunder. Great chunks of it broke free and began to fall on the horde, dousing the red fire in pure heavenly light. The horde army stood in stark terror as the light began to filter through, revealing all; and even the Seer cowered, raising the sleeve of his garment to cover his face. He fell to the earth awkwardly, landing in a heap.
White light flooded down from the Sword as the night began to crumble away like rubble. Kreios was lifted up, the grips of the Sword in his hand, and as he wielded it, awaiting the coming rout of the enemy mob, power and light like the sun poured from the blade over the remnant of the angelic army, enfolding them in its invincible protection. This, then, was the Presence of God—despite their decision to leave paradise for their other love—El never abandoned His children, especially in their darkest hour.
The Sword began to hum a high-pitched song, and as it did, even the rocks of the dark dome of night cried out, broke apart, and fell to the ground. Shining brightly, Kreios descended now, and landed with a stone face set toward the battle.
The horde army was stunned. They stared at it like children, and a new feeling washed over them: deep and abiding fear.
All was deathly quiet and still for an instant. The battlefield stood frozen. The angels on the high ground, about twenty in number, and the horde masses on the plain and in the forest, were all still. The Seer regained his feet, limping, trying to heal, seeking the power of the bloodstone. The Sword was raised in Kreios’s hand, and he spoke simply, quietly, eyes blazing. “Trumpeter, sound the charge.”
The Trumpet sounded forth with mighty blast, and it shook the hill. At its sounding, the angelic remnant took to the air in an instant, hovering at the ready, motionless again in brief pause, bristling with weapons. The horde army stood in shock, for all their numbers, and defeat called soothingly to them, begged them bow down with her and die.
The angels blasted out into the horde with the force of a powder keg, wilting the enemy infantry, breaking their line, decisively smashing and crushing them